Page 44 of Chasin’s Surrender

“Yeah.”

Chasin’s head tipped back, his peal of laughter filled the car.

I felt his laughter sear through me.

A sound I’d allowed myself to fall in love with over a weekend.

When Chasin laughed, it wasn’t something you just heard, it was a feeling that seeped deep and warmed you all over.

And I’d missed it so damn badly. Hearing it again, feeling the warmth, I realized I’d missed it more than I’d known.

“I grew up in Ohio. There were no unpaved roads in sight. Then I joined the Navy and that’s where I learned to navigate dirt and sand.”

“Well, that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“You’re driving like we have the Taliban on our tail. I fear for y’all’s suspension, not to mention the undercarriage is being chewed up from all the rocks. And I don’t even want to think about your paint. You know we’re not in a Humvee, right?”

“Hey, babe. I know we’re not. But I want you out of sight.” He chuckled.

Nothing like being snapped back to reality.

“I thought you said the farm’s private?”

“It is. But the drive through town wasn’t. Weston and Alec are both in their vehicles behind Jameson and Bobby, making sure no one saw you and followed us. But until they give me the all-clear, I’ll risk needing an alignment…and my paint.”

That felt nice—him looking out for me. But I didn’t get a chance to tell him because the lane made a sharp right bend and a horde of cars came into view.

“Fuck,” Chasin hissed.

“What?”

Chasin didn’t answer, which made my nerves that were already in an upheaval shift straight to alarmed. He parked, cut the engine, turned to me, and thankfully didn’t make me wait.

“The women are here.”

Women? What women?

“Huh?”

Chasin didn’t answer. His gaze went out the window, then he spoke. “Micky, Silver, Kennedy, and Macy. Which means, Rory, Caleb, and Jocelyn. At the minimum. There may be more people if they carpooled.”

“Huh?” I repeated, my heart rate spiking.

That was a lot of people.

“Possibly Mandy, if she’s home, and Zack. And though I don’t see her car, Becky, too.”

That was three more people to the already long list of strangers.

“Why are they here?”

“They’re the welcome committee.”

“The what?” I gasped, not understanding why there were fifty-two million people at the farmhouse when Chasin said he lived there alone.

He’d explained that the farm belonged to Nixon. It was his childhood home and he’d inherited it after his father passed, but he now lived with his wife, McKenna, on an adjacent piece of land. So, McKenna being there would make sense—it was her house, too, after all.